Page 6 of My Forbidden Mountain Man

Fuck.

Violet may no longer be my stepdaughter, but I’ve got no right looking at her the way I am. My body can’t tell the difference.

My cock is already stirring to life, thick and insistent, as if it remembers the rhythm of my hands all too well—the same desperate pattern I fall into, over and over. It hardens against my thigh, a slow, relentless pulse beneath my jeans, the denim rough and unforgiving as it drags against my skin.

I grit my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut as my fingers dig into my thigh. Fuck. It’s not enough. The need coils tighter, a hot, insistent throb that demands attention.

My hand twitches, torn between shoving into my pants right here and forcing myself to wait—to prove I still have some fucking control left.

My body isn’t listening.

Before I can stop myself, my palm presses down, hard, over the stiff outline of my cock, and I hiss at the jolt of pleasure-pain that shoots through me. My grip tightens, almost punishing, as if I can strangle the want out of me. It doesn’t work. If anything,the pressure just makes it worse—the ache sharper, the need more desperate.

Then Violet sighs in her slumber, rolling onto her side so she can get more comfortable.

Gritting my teeth, I tear myself away from the couch and move toward the woodpile I have stacked next to a dimming flame.

Once I’ve stuffed enough pieces inside to barely leave me satisfied, I use the need to go outside and get more wood as an excuse to put some distance between us.

Fresh air will do me well. Help clear my clouded thoughts and make me a better man.

Ihaveto be a better man.

* * *

My arms burn with the next swing of my axe. A sharp grunt escapes me as the blade bites into the wood, splitting it cleanly in two.

It turns out that hard labor is the perfect distraction.

Doesn’t hurt that I’ll need every last piece of firewood to keep my cabin warm. Even if the pile is growing bigger than it needs to be, it’ll be less to cut in the future.

The familiar thump of the front door gives my next swing more added force than needed, sending the two pieces flying.

I try not to pay her any attention, but I feel her gaze burning into my back as I reach for another log. She stays silent, watching, letting me split three more pieces before I’m the one who finally turns.

She leans against the rail, unflinching when our eyes meet. Instead of looking away, the corner of her mouth quirks up, her body shifting with the same quiet amusement.

Her face is scrubbed clean now, though her skin still glows—flushed, as if she’d rubbed it raw.

Not having a clue about the distance I’m trying to keep, she carelessly hops down each step before joining me. One hand cradles her hip while the other digs through the dark roots of her hair.

“Sorry for passing out on you there, but thanks for letting me sleep. Needed it more than I care to admit.” She sniffs before finally looking away. “Need any help? Least I can do since you’re helping me out.”

I need to tell her to go back inside, to do whatever the hell she wants as long as she isn’t in the same room as I am.

Instead, I grunt. My muscles ache as I drop the axe and jerk my chin to my impressive pile. One that would be a good size if I were preparing for winter, not the middle of summer.

“Grab an armful and help me take some inside.” As the words leave my lips, I move to lead by example. Once my arm is full, I’m shoving my way forward, not lingering long enough to discover what she sounds like when she’s doing hard labor. I don’t need to worry about what a grunt or groan sounds like falling past her lips.

With the two of us working, we gather enough firewood for the day in no time. Her pale skin flushes—partly from labor, partly from the wood’s rough bite. She brushes off her chest, fishing out flecks of bark that slipped beneath her collar.

Jesus. She has to know what she’s doing.

“Cool, we’re done.” Her eyes flick up, nearly catching me staring. “Got any food? I haven’t had a decent meal in days. Tell me you’ve got something to stuff my mouth with.”

My body betrays me in an instant. All that exhaustion from chopping wood? Gone. My blood surges south, eager and inconvenient.

“Sure. Check the fridge. You’ll find something in there.” Moving to wash my hands, I cup a palmful of ice-cold water to douse my face with. While it’s helpful not where it needs to be, the cool water against my flushed cheeks is a welcome relief.

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